Poet's Gloss
by Meng Xiaojie
Summary: The Force was his strength and his song. ObiWan would fear no darkness. A Death Star vignette.


**Poet's Gloss**

_By Meng Xiaojie_

_Disclaimer: Star Wars and all related properties are copyrights of George Lucas, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended._

**Warnings: Rated PG for angst and character death.**

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_In my heart's sequestered chambers_

_Lie truths stripped of poet's gloss.  
Words alone are vain and vacant,_

_And my heart is mute.  
In response to aching silence_

_Memory summons half-heard voices,  
And my soul finds primal eloquence_

_And wraps me in song._

--From "Sing Me to Heaven," written by Daniel E. Gawthrop

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Obi-Wan Kenobi knew, beyond any shade of doubt or despair, that he was not going to survive. The harsh red saber almost mocked him as it danced and spun, sporadically clashed with his own crisp blue blade, only to wheel away in preparation for the next sally. It was a familiar dance, of course—sinuous techniques and variations so achingly close to his own, but jagged-edged and driven by an abominable darkness.

And power. Always, _always_ the power.

He hardly recognized the creature that opposed him. All black hardware and circuitry, with a seething Force signature that both froze his blood and blistered his senses. No trace of the vibrant, puckish child who'd once clung to his side. Not a hint of the roguish youth he'd grown to lean on like a brother.

Obi-Wan felt a faint stirring of fury as he deflected yet another mocking blow. _How **dare** you use Anakin's favorite tricks? You're not my Ani._ A moment of pure sorrow as cold saber-light glinted across the Sith's soulless mask. _Not my Ani at all._

Ani had failed to kill his Master. Darth Vader would not.

The Force sang almost mournfully, its currents sweeter and more luminous in the presence of the Sith's encroaching shadow. Obi-Wan had never been one to resign all hope, but he'd lived long enough to know a death dirge when he heard one. He permitted himself a tiny, private smile as he stepped closer to Vader's kill zone, feeling each strike reverberate through his arms with far greater force than before. He'd had rather a bad feeling all day, and it seemed that the Force was planning to justify his signature adage.

_But not before Luke gets clear._ The boy was a shimmering gleam at the edge of his peripheral senses, an untarnished spark of hope in a darkening smog of cruel prescience. Obi-Wan pressed Vader back, filling the air with the scent of lightning as their sabers skittered and crashed together. His own skill would cost him, he knew; the long years of veiling his identity behind an old hermit's mask hadn't eroded any of his knowledge or experience, but his body was no longer capable of withstanding the strain of such violence. The Force's beckoning song swelled ever stronger as his strength began to splinter. _I cannot answer the call until Luke is safe,_ he thought determinedly. _Sorry to keep you waiting, my old Master, but you'll just have to be patient until I'm done here._

Vader brought his blade down in a fierce arc that Obi-Wan easily read and blocked, but to his mild surprise, the Sith did not immediately pull back. "Your powers are weak, old man," he declared sibilantly.

Obi-Wan could have laughed. Or he could have wept. Instead, he gave Anakin—_Anakin_, not Vader—a knowing stare, allowing one corner of his mouth to twitch upward in a vintage Kenobi smirk. "You can't win, _Darth_," he said deliberately, with the very same inflection he'd so often used when addressing his Padawan. "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

The words felt _right_. Suddenly more comforted than he'd been in all the long years of exile, Obi-Wan sent the clean spike of truth sailing through the air and through the Force, like a bell tolling on a clear morning, and felt Vader's rage lashing out like a serpent in response.

And then Luke was there, a white-hot flame on the other side of the hangar bay, scrambling to get to that mouthy young smuggler's clunker of a ship. The mouthy smuggler was with him, his aura fairly jangling with wild self-preservation and a good bit of brotherly protectiveness. And with them was—Obi-Wan wanted to smile in recognition, but didn't dare, lest he give her away. She was as daring and as beautiful as her mother had been, and her Force signature was warm and lovely; not as intense as Luke's, certainly, but imbued with a regal grace and strength of will to match that of Amidala herself.

Obi-Wan felt the instant Vader's attention turned to the brilliant new arrival, felt Luke's growing alarm as he took in old Ben's predicament. _No, Luke, run,_ he thought urgently, knocking the crimson blade aside as the duel began again in earnest. Vader wanted Luke, could feel the Force's touch on the child, and had no doubt seen straight through to the blood tying them together. Obi-Wan's mouth tightened with sudden surety. **_You_** _shall not have him,_ he nearly spat at Vader, the Force between them rippling with defiance. _And…_ Obi-Wan sighed wearily, almost regretfully, as the knowledge flooded in. _Neither shall I._

The Force's elegiac harmony grew louder, flowed almost gently against Obi-Wan's waning senses, then rebounded and slammed through the Jedi like a keening battle howl. Yes. It was time. He extinguished his blade, raised the hilt in silent salute, and met the Darkness' joyful shriek with tranquility.

He saw red. He saw white. And then all was white.

And he heard a gentle, beloved voice whispering on a breath of pure, sweet Light.

_Welcome home, my old Padawan…_

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**Thank you for reading.**

**This was originally going to be part of a longer fic, but that fic decided to fizzle out on me. I figured this little bit could stand on its own.**

**Review if you're feeling froggy—happy readers make a happy author!**


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